


every breath we drew was hallelujah

by thecarlysutra



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6690592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war. On orbits, and palmistry. For Carla.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every breath we drew was hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [escritoireazul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/gifts).



  
The time after the war was for reconstruction. Buildings, friendships, people. Some not easily rebuilt as others. When the dust settled, they met somewhere between her hunting him and him coming home. You can't run forever, but a dog on the scent will stalk to the ends of the earth. It was neither a victory nor a surrender; it was an act as inevitable as the tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth's surface, inching toward each other.

There are monkeys in Ecuador. Natasha can hear them chattering outside the window when dawn blooms and the city is still, however briefly. She holds a bedsheet against herself and pads barefoot to the window, her face bathed in grapefruit pulp colored light. She catches her eyes in the reflection, her pupils pinching into themselves under the sunlight, dilating as she shifts her gaze to the reflection of Bruce in the unmade bed behind her. His face is tranquil in sleep, and his body is half shaded and half spotlighted in the light shining through the window. He looks like an epiphany, and Natasha turns from the window.

***

They're not running. They're not even hiding. It's just that they're gone, away from the aftermath of the war and the rebuilding, the sowing of seeds and the laying of bricks. Away from the weight of their pasts; every day is a new day; every day they are further away from the quinjet disappearing from the map, further from the ache of longing like a missing limb. How could you mourn a life you hadn't lived?

They are living it now.

She hasn't held a gun in weeks, and her hands don't miss it. Bruce travels the backroads tending to the sick, and Natasha unravels bandages and gets used to the smell of natural death. It's like rotten fruit, so different from cordite and copper, a life ended in the impact of a bullet or the drawing of a blade from ear to ear. It doesn't take much to get used to, and when he apologizes for shutting out every part of her world but him, she kisses him. She would make the same choice a hundred times.

They have their fortunes read. The fortune teller tells Natasha she has red in the lines of her palms. Bruce's heart line forks. The fortune teller deals tarot for them. For Bruce: the Star. Natasha is dealt the Three of Swords, and for a moment a chill runs over her, seeing the heart punctured thrice. But the card is inverted, meaning optimism, forgiveness, and an open heart.

She'll take it.

At night they turn on the ceiling fan. It alleviates the sticky heat not at all, and when it's not in motion, the blades droop like a black-eyed Susan. Still, it stirs up the air and makes a comforting low hum, which isolates them from the sounds of the city. Bruce places his hands flat on Natasha's body, holding her in place as surely as the earth's rotation. He runs his fingertips down her spine, pinches his teeth against her collarbones. Her hands cross his body like she is learning him in Braille. She reads him.

They make love on top of the covers and fall asleep with their pulses thumping against each other's flesh.

_I can feel you like a drug in my veins,_ she thinks.

They have disappeared from the map. Their compass points inward, toward each other.

Natasha has red in the lines of her palms. Bruce is the Star, constant, hopeful, renewing.

The world is rebuilding after the war. They're not running, and they're not hiding. They are binary stars orbiting the same nexus. They can be seen from earth, but not touched, except by each other.

Outside the window, monkeys chatter. The city breathes. Seeds are sown and bricks are laid. Beneath the surface of the earth, tectonic plates shift.

Natasha feels Bruce's heartbeat throb inside her chest. His hands settle on her waist, fingers dipping into the dimples of her spine.

The world spins, and Natasha holds on.  



End file.
